


Beyond the Bodyguard

by Rvlakia



Series: Nobody is a Bodyguard, Really [2]
Category: The RageGaming Crew
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Backstory, Gen, Not Beta Read, One Shot Collection, Side Story, fan-focussed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-11-09 11:02:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11103228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rvlakia/pseuds/Rvlakia
Summary: A collection of short stories based in/around the world and characters of Not a Bodyguard.





	1. _._._.D.A.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome (finally) to this extra little bit of NaB! Don't forget, physical copies available through Amazon! Whoop! And now, a quick rundown of what to expect:
> 
> \- Stories related to characters and events in the world of mercs and mods.  
> \- Extremely variable chapter lengths. I'm talking 300 words one week, 5000 the next.  
> \- Erratic uploading. It will always be on a Thursday, but not every Thursday.  
> \- Characters who are not real people, for once.  
> \- Fun times.  
> \- Not fun times.  
> \- Basically anything really.
> 
> I urge you to say what you'd like to see in this series, because chances are that I won't think of something until you ask for it. This is a very request-based series. Heck, might even get some guest stars (read: writers) for all you know...  
> Anyway, on with the show!

Sneaking out of the Common was remarkably easy, facilitated by Gubiak's lack of interaction when opening doors. The carpet softened her footfalls to nothing as she slinked past benches and tables toward the lift, though since no one was awake to hear them in the first place that feature was somewhat redundant.

Hatter should have been sleeping, like everyone else. Her body felt utterly leaden and under normal circumstances that would have had her out within seconds of lying down but instead her rest was fitful, reaching the very edge of unconsciousness before she was hit with the sickening sensation of falling through the mattress and rushed with a fresh shot of adrenaline. A few times she had found her arms automatically outstretched as if seeking a lifeline, someone to catch her, but then it felt more like  _she_ was the one trying to stop someone else from falling. Then she remembered where she was, then what happened, then she felt nauseous again. After numerous futile attempts to sleep Hatter finally just got up and decided to leave.

" _Fuck_ ," she muttered to herself as the lift hurried her down to her destination, running a hand through her mussed hair as it fell into her eyes. There was no hat on her head and her clothes were beginning to stick to her skin now that she'd fallen asleep (almost) in them for two nights in a row. Her brain dimly registered the fact that she probably appeared a complete mess but it also knew that where she was going nobody was going to care what she looked like or whether she had slept enough or eaten enough. None of it mattered.

Hatter lurched out of the lift when it hit Ground Level, her boots striking the concrete with harsh precision as she made her way to the exit which, contrary to several regulations and laws but not an uncommon occurrence, was left completely open. Once outside she headed due north, her presence dampened by the Mist allowing her to pass six other scrapers undisturbed. To everyone else there she was just as unremarkable as the next person, the only thing truly setting her apart from them being her ability to traverse through the sea wall between District 2 and 3. She didn't know if Gubiak was capable of logging her access there but didn't really care.

The mercenary's pace finally faltered as she neared the base of 3 W and the odd outlines of ramshackle buildings began to make themselves known through the dark, intermittent at first but rapidly increasing in number the more she walked. In her impatience she had forgotten about the Town in this District, by far one of the largest in the city though no definitive headcount had been made upon it (since any data collected would be outdated within the month). Hatter actively started to pay more attention to her surroundings and could already feel a significant increase in the number of curious eyes upon her, the inhabitants recognising her as an outsider even if not as a moderator. As a precaution she removed the mercenary badge from her coat so as not to be questioned about her purpose for visiting the community of Ground-dwellers.

Hatter aligned her all too clear memory with the structures in her surrounding to navigate exactly where she wanted to go. The buildings became sturdier the closer to the centre of Town she got and a semblance of streets formed in an almost real display of civilisation; settlements like these arose when groups – often families – formed a coherent truce for long enough that it actually attracted others toward them simply because the location was one of the safest places to be. It didn't change the fact that most Towns were broken within 5 years, but the one here had defeated the odds and continued to exist for longer than Hatter had lived. It would take a concerted effort to tear it down now.

The sudden biting stench of sterilising agents alerted Hatter to something out of place in the environment and within seconds of searching for the source she spotted an area cordoned off with tape that had been painted with red stripes. She frowned, stalking over to it and finding a clear section of concrete covered in some kind of fluid patterned with the tracks of a mop or something similar.

"Hey!" a voice snapped as Hatter was in the middle of lifting the tape to go under and investigate the scene. "Don't you understand what the line means?  _Do not cross_." The mercenary released the barrier and turned to face the scowling girl who had jumped up from her chair. The bottom half of her face was obscured by a makeshift cloth mask and her waved hair was held tightly out of the way by a combination of hair ties. Despite her annoyed expression the girl's voice was undercut with a natural sweetness that lent itself to her facial features. Her eyebrow arched in question as gloved arms crossed, making Hatter realised she hadn't yet replied.

"What happened here?" the mod asked, part of her already putting together the pieces and not actually wanting to know.

"Wow, where have you been?" The girl rolled her eyes. "Had a Jumper."

Hatter's stomach dropped. This was about the right place, but surely there would be more trace of it given that only a few hours had passed. "When?" she asked hesitantly.

"This afternoon."

" _What?_ There's no way the police had enough time to check it out!"

The girl's frown returned, heavier than last time. "Hey," she said, pointing at herself, "do you know my name?"

"Huh?"

"Thought not. You're not from around here, are you?" She sighed. "No offence, but maybe you should do some research before passing through Enfield. If people know you're an outsider then someone's going to take advantage of you eventually. I'm Robyn, by the way; you?"

"Ha-" The mercenary hesitated. This girl seemed fine enough but one could never tell, and besides, it was without doubt that if anyone learnt that 'Hatter' was in the Town then someone would get some stupid ideas about putting her in her place. "Morgan," she answered instead.

Robyn nodded in acceptance. "I would shake your hand but…" She indicated to her gloves in explanation. "I'm guessing you come from the scrapers, right? Well I'm afraid it's just not possible to abide by your rules down here. If we left a Jumper out long enough for the police to investigate then you can bet someone here is going to get ill; there's just too much risk of an epidemic, so we get rid of the bodies as quick as possible. Burn what we can, then clean the area. I'm just leaving the disinfectants to sit for a bit."

Hatter stared at the slick ground for a little while, fighting against the rising bile in her throat as she attempted to build up enough willpower to ask the necessary question. "What… What did the Jumper look like?"

What was visible of Robyn's face displayed her perplexion but she answered anyway. "I only caught a glimpse when they removed the body but it was a girl I think, long dark hair. Couldn't make out any features, what with… you know..." She mimed a splat motion.

Hatter couldn't breathe. She felt sick. Her eyes kept travelling back to the cordoned area and her brain unhelpfully transposed an image of Kia's prone body lying askew on the concrete surrounded by red that reached up the wall of the scraper and staining the ground permanently-

The mercenary tore her gaze away with such force that it hurt her neck, inhaling far too rapidly. Despite trying to push it to the back of her brain the disgusting image her mind had created stubbornly sat at the forefront of her thoughts and didn't seem like it was going anywhere, though the effect of it was lessened when she didn't actually look at the spot it had happened. Knowing that the sterilisers on the floor were, at that very moment, dissolving the last traces of Kia away was beyond unsettling.

"You okay?" Robyn asked, her concerned voice cutting through the fog that was clinging to Hatter's concentration. It took a moment for her to settle herself enough to reply.

"Yeah… yeah…"

The girl didn't seem convinced but she just shrugged. "Well, it's not like it's any of my business; I've got to finish up here, so if you're just passing through then maybe you should continue with that."

Hatter nodded absently, turning to go back the exact way she had come in just a distracted state as before.

She was tired now.

 

* * *

 

 

"Hatter."

"Mmh."

"Are you listening?"

The mercenary blinked and looked over at Leni's questioning face. "Yes."

"Really?" The scepticism was heavy in her voice. "Honestly, Hatter, you've been way too out of it lately. Is something wrong?" The slight narrowing of her eyes suggested she had already decided that there was, indeed, 'something wrong' and what the problem actually was.

The mercenary shrugged. "I'm fine," she replied; it wasn't a lie, but she wasn't sure it was entirely true either. Her answer was met with silence and an unconvinced, inquisitorial stare from Leni. Eventually the prime minister sighed and reached into the inner pocket of her suit blazer to pull out a small white rectangle, holding it out. Hatter took it hesitantly, the pulp smooth under her fingers and she turned it over to read a name and contact information printed in crisp black ink on the other side. "What is this?" she queried, part of her having an idea already.

"Someone you can speak to," Leni answered nonchalantly, briefly thanking her PA as they returned with the bottle of water she'd requested earlier, "if you ever feel like talking."

"I don't need this." Hatter frowned, trying to hand the business card back.

"Maybe not yet. But keep it." Seeing the look on the mercenary's face, she appended, "That's an order."

When Leni turned away again Hatter allowed herself to glare momentarily before resigning herself and tucking the card away into one of the pockets of her bandoliers, doubting she would ever remember it was there.

 

* * *

 

 

Something crunched underfoot as Hatter stepped into the room and she immediately moved back to ascertain what she had trodden on, relieved to see that it had already been broken before her arrival. Whatever it had once been (an ornament, maybe?) the ceramic was so shattered that there was no salvaging it and she felt less guilty about any further damage done. Hatter put it out of her mind and moved further into the space which was lit through the power of every pre-contained lamp and a couple of extra spotlights to allow the host of historians and their assistants to marvel over the finds without fear of casting too deep a shadow on the fine details. Invisible boundaries cordoned off sections of the room so as to maintain order between museum representatives, everyone taking it in turns to claim what they had been designated in each zone. Vibrantly coloured labels speckled the scene, corresponding to crates surrounded by packing material ready to cradle the artefacts in safety as they were transported to a more appropriate location than the bedroom of a criminal.

A few people glanced up in curiosity as Hatter entered the space that had until recently belonged to Rvlakia, but were rapidly distracted again by the girl's collection. Hatter even noted one tutting over the chipped state of a partially polished half-rock. Remnants of chaos were still visible throughout the room, little hints that not everyone who'd visited had enjoyed their momentary stay. The thought of Mez's face swaddled in white bandages slowly dyed red made the mercenary's stomach flip and she turned away from the reminders. She wasn't even supposed to be here, but she had wanted to check up on the situation now that everything was over and it wasn't like anyone here was going to call her out for trespassing. With so many strangers present it was hard to imagine anyone living in this room. Hatter wasn't sure what she'd been expecting.

A flash of red in her periphery caused Hatter to step toward the bedside table, so far untouched since she herself had tampered with it. The unusual cylinder was still sat there, as of yet unlabelled and thus not recorded on any system. A hesitant idea planted itself in her mind and before Hatter fully registered what she was doing she had used her body to block the view of the cabinet, glancing over her shoulders to check if anybody was looking her way. Convinced she was in the clear, Hatter smoothly swept the cylinder straight into her coat pocket; it was almost too perfect, like the container had been specifically sized to fit inside. There was a small distending of the clean lines of black fabric but nothing that was immediately noticeable or suspicious, and another flitting look around informed her that no one had seen what she'd done. A tiny rush of adrenaline spiked her blood as she hastily – but not  _too_  hastily – beat a retreat out the door, the historians who'd actually noticed her arrival not batting an eyelid at her subsequent exit.

It wasn't until she had left the building that Hatter wondered why she'd stolen the cylinder.

 

* * *

 

Peace scoffed as he checked the video feed for Test Room 2, his concern that the static nature of the image meant the camera had broken proving to be unfounded. "Is she actually  _sleeping_  like that? Wow."

Hollow's head poked up over the monitor, now distracted from working on his latest prototype. Peace didn't seem to have noticed his interest so the genius stood and walked around until he could see what the fuss was; the screen currently displayed the room Hatter had appropriated a few hours ago to train in, littered with fighting paraphernalia created or collected over time. Most notably a punchbag had been hung from the ceiling, now hanging at an odd angle as the lower half was pushed horizontal by Hatter's face where she leant against it, balanced in an almost infeasible manner. If not for the slight movement of her chest as she breathed, Hollow might've thought the image was a still.

As Peace chuckled at the oddity, Hollow frowned. The exact details of how the mercenary had ended up in that position didn't matter nearly as much as the fact that she was somehow maintaining her serenity despite her usual awareness of herself. "She's been sleeping too much lately," Hollow commented, forehead knitting even further.

Peace's mirth died off and he tilted his head in agreement, though he made no mention of the cause of Hatter's recent lethargy. And why should he? Everyone knew the reason, so where would be the point in having more endless looping conversations about it; no matter how many missions Hatter took or how much danger she got herself into, it clearly wasn't enough to wipe the events of three months prior away. And given her temperament, maybe it never would.

"Gubiak, what do you think?" He leant on the desk as he awaited the newly-upgraded CI's answer.

**My study indicates that Hatter is within healthy medical deviations. But analysis of Juke's behavioural records would suggest that she needs some help.**

"That's all very well if she wants the help, but she keeps refusing to talk about it," Peace scowled.

**You can't force her to.**

"But–"

Hollow shook his head and fixed his assistant with a sombre look.

"She just needs more time."

 

* * *

 

Hatter grumbled as she turned over on her bed, trying to get back to sleep; she couldn't remember exactly what had woken her up, but past experiences gave her a pretty good guess. Slumber evaded her not for lack of exhaustion, no, but for an entirely unlike-her reason.

Her stomach growled.

Muttering in frustration at her own body's desires (and in annoyance that she'd forgotten to eat before going to bed) Hatter pulled herself to her feet, straightening up her shirt as she did so and yawning widely. One quick trip to the kitchen didn't require her boots so she left them behind, Juke freeing her from her room quickly. Her late-night movements triggered the lights as she progressed, but anything bright had barely turned on before it was off again. The mercenary entered the kitchen and blinked as her eyes adjusted slowly to the change in tone, Gubiak keeping the room's illumination just low enough to foster her need to sleep. It was strange knowing that she had not one but two CI looking out for her now, working in tandem to make the whole process of daily life as a moderator easier.

Brain working at only half speed, Hatter barely thought as she rummaged through the cupboards for something simple to make, allowing her hands to pick things from the shelves as they pleased. Muscle memory led her through the process and before she knew it she had a plain looking sandwich ready to go. A plate was unnecessary, in theory, but she had one out anyway. The scrape of the chair as she pulled it out grated on her ears and made her wince a little but she set the discomfort aside when she sat at the island counter, surrounded by far more jars and pots of fillings than she could have possibly used.

The first bite she took was sweet, as was the second. But her meal was getting progressively less appealing the more she ate and by the time Hatter had consumed a quarter of the sandwich she had to stop, setting it down carefully. The bread was turning to ash in her mouth and the filling was scratching at her oesophagus as though it were actively trying to make her bleed. Shit, she didn't even know what she'd put in it! She gingerly pulled the slices apart to discover an odd marriage of peanut butter and honey, the former of which she wasn't particularly a fan of anyway. She'd even cut off the crusts for some unfathomable reason and it was at this point that Hatter had to stand, wiping roughly at her mouth as if she could remove the taste of dust from it. She'd been hungry and tired, sure, but this peculiar meal just wasn't like her. No, it was more Kia's sty-

The mercenary whirled around and swept her arms over the island, casting everything off of the surface and sending it flying. A discordant symphony of shattering glass filled the kitchen as she breathed far too rapidly and shallowly for it to be healthy, dark spots creeping into her vision as she slipped into and out of Desync with a ferocity she hadn't experienced for years. Hatter staggered and leant against the counter for support, the sharp edge of it digging into her side like a blunted knife held by the laughs of a girl who'd been dead for months.

She was dead _._

She had died.

She had  _jumped_.

Hatter didn't know how long she'd been standing there but eventually her heart rate returned to a normal level and she found enough presence of mind to examine her surroundings. There was glass everywhere on the floor, the ceramic plate shattered into a thousand pieces and an explosion of jam decorated every visible cupboard. It was even on her feet, soaking through her socks, stickier and heavier than blood but reminiscent all the same. Hatter felt the tracks of something warm on her cheeks and the pain of something caught in her throat. The impression of concerned faces swam past her eyes, too blurred for her to make out any individual. How long had it been? How many months now? Five? Six? The moderator reached up to her bandoliers and gripped them tight as some form of comfort, glad for once that she'd forgotten to take them off before sleeping. They were familiar, they meant she was prepared, protected. Capable.

Except she wasn't, was she? She couldn't even eat a bloody  _sandwich_. How pathetic was that?

Hatter took a deep breath, straightening herself out. She refused to be beaten like this. Not by a person long since dead. Her fingers fumbled at the entrance to one of the hidden pockets of the bandoliers for a few seconds before she managed to pull out the card she knew was still in there. It was more than a little bent, but the information on it was still clear enough for her to make it out. For a second, that tiny black and white business card was her whole world.

"Fuck this."


	2. Mesophase

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How about something that isn't quite as depressing this time?

"So when's  _your_  birthday, Hatter?"

The mercenary in question had been listening (well, 'listening' wasn't quite accurate) to Kia ramble for the past hour about a multitude of meaningless topics, too tired by the previous day's antics to fully participate in a conversation with the girl. The current query brought her out of her stupor though, and she was left staring at Kia for a good while before her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Who told you?"

Kia's head tilted sideways in genuine confusion. "What?"

Okay, it didn't seem like she actually knew. "Can you read minds?" Hatter asked instead. Honestly, it was a plausible situation, and it would explain plenty of oddities in the girl's behaviour.

"I don't understand," she said, scowling slightly and clearly of the belief that she was being teased. Hatter sighed, knowing that even if she tried to walk away from the conversation she would eventually be pestered enough for Kia to break through to the truth.

"My birthday is today," the mercenary revealed reluctantly, not failing to note how wide Kia's eyes grew within a second.

"Why didn't you tell me?" the girl whined, clearly irritated that she hadn't been given enough warning to prepare. "I could've got you something!"

"You really don–"

Struck with an idea, Kia leapt to her feet and violently tugged Hatter by the hand up off of the very comfortable bench she was sitting on, pulling her across the Common in a familiar direction. "Follow me!" Kia exclaimed excitedly; the imperative was virtually pointless since it wasn't like either of them had much choice in following the other, the ever-present glow of their bond stretching between them.

It quickly became apparent from the familiar route they were taking that Kia was heading for the kitchen, pushing Hatter to sit in one of the chairs facing the entrance with a strict instruction to not turn around, followed by a clattering of utensils and the slamming of cupboards. By this point the girl had learnt where most everything was stored (not surprising given how much time she spent there) but Hatter could hear the tell-tale sounds of her climbing onto surfaces to reach things she'd normally get her taller companion to retrieve.

"Am I allowed to ask what you're making?" Hatter queried, since it was obvious that some kind of food preparation was underway. She could even see an abundance of little white specks in the air, floating about since Kia had been a tad too enthusiastic with the flour.

"No," was the curt reply. "I'm still mad at you for not telling me your birthday was soon," she added after a brief pause. Hatter snorted in amusement at her petulant tone but didn't press the point.

It wasn't as if Hatter had forgotten her 'special day' was fast approaching – how could she? – but it simply hadn't occurred to her to tell Kia about it. Everyone else knew when it was, and she honestly hadn't expected the girl to still be around at this point. Even if she  _had_  known they'd still be stuck together, or that she'd come to enjoy the company, Hatter still wouldn't have revealed the date's significance; the thought of celebrating her life when so many others had lost theirs made her feel sick and already she was in great discomfort that Kia was trying to make it a good day.

"Just ten or so minutes to wait now," Kia stated, sitting across from the mercenary and sliding a mug of tea to her side of the table. Hatter hadn't heard the kettle boiling but she wasn't going to turn down the beverage, wrapping her hands around the ceramic so that they were warmed to the point of pain.

Obviously Kia had picked up on some of the negative vibes swirling around Hatter because she said nothing for a good while, not attempting menial conversation and only wincing when she was scalded by her tea as opposed to exclaiming loudly. She took to running her index finger around the rim of the mug, fixated on the endless path it presented.

"I'm sorry," she blurted eventually, startling Hatter into looking right at her. "For leaving you yesterday. For getting caught up in Mez's flow. I never meant to cause you trouble." Her eyes flicked up to meet Hatter's but immediately looked away again.

"Kia…" She stared at the girl, piecing together what she might possibly be deliberating over. "I'm not mad at you, if that's what you think. Mez is very easy to go along with, so I entirely understand how you got dragged along with her. It was my fault for letting my guard down." She didn't have to mention how worried she'd been when chasing after them, about when the handcuffs reached their limit, actually scared not for her own safety but for Kia's.

The girl in question finally met her gaze with a hopeful expression and smiled, then promptly jumped out of her skin as the timer on the oven went off. She hopped out of her chair to extract whatever it was she had been making, filling the room with the scent of cookies that had Hatter turning around to help - a violent slap to her shoulder when she was caught reminded her not to. Rather unceremoniously Kia plonked the baking tray on the table between them, grumbling as the action shook the cookies loose and slid them all in Hatter's direction.

"Tada," she said with a flourish of her hands. "Probably should have asked before if you like oatmeal and raisin, but oh well."

Hatter nodded that she did, already biting into one of the cookies (because everyone knew they were best when still warm, it was just common sense). Kia at least had the courtesy to wait for the mercenary to finish her first one before digging in herself, something Hatter had entirely expected her to do. "How many did you make?" she asked, slightly concerned at how quickly they treat was disappearing.

"Used a recipe for one-to-twelve, like always," Kia replied. "But there always ends up being more than that."

"Great," Hatter nodded. "I swear I could eat a hundred of these right now."

"Good thing you said that." Kia looked more than a little relieved. "Because there's another two trays behind you and three more in the oven."

"Wha- you said you used a recipe for  _twelve_!"

"I can't help it; they just multiply every time!"

Hatter stared at her in shock for a moment longer, then just burst out laughing. Of  _course_  Kia would always make too many, it was just the sort of accident that made her  _Kia_. The girl was scowling now, but the edges of her mouth couldn't stop from twitching as she tried to force herself not to laugh along, but it only took a few more seconds for the sound of incipient giggling to escape her.

Maybe Kia had noticed some of Hatter's hesitation earlier because the girl hadn't brought up the matter of it being her birthday again and the mod was more than grateful for that since the situation felt much more like she was just having fun with her friend than celebrating. No one could blame her for that.

She could be forgiven just this once, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I kept a log of what date it was every chapter and you can imagine how hard I kicked myself after realising Solid Phase ended A DAY BEFORE HATTER'S IN-STORY BIRTHDAY okay i'm done
> 
> Also, a fun reminder that those two idiots were actually 16 at the start of the book :3


	3. A Dragon Among Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a short one this time around :3

Lavs groaned as she literally rolled out of her bed and onto the floor, choosing to slowly shunt herself toward the bathroom rather than walking. Once there the need to stand was unavoidable so she relied on the door jamb for support as a dull ache radiated throughout her body, protesting at the movement. The lights flicked on automatically as she yawned and staggered into the room, tugging off her pyjamas and throwing them back into her bedroom without a second thought, knowing that she'd be able to pick them up with ease once she'd worked all of the sleep out of her joints. Right now the motion of bending would only ruin her.

Lavs forced herself into wakefulness as she went through the motions of getting up for the day, pausing only as she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Under normal circumstances someone with her appearance would pass as nothing but 'ordinary', but like this, in the stark light of the bathroom, the latticework of countless fine scars that decorated her torso could hardly fail to make anyone stare. Shit,  _she_  was used to them and was still caught off guard sometimes. Lavs ran a finger along the oldest mark, a surgically precise line across her abdomen that represented the beginning of her new life. That one had been for her first kidney.

How much of her was fake now? Thirty percent? Forty? Or had she surpassed half, somewhere along the way? Just how much of her was flesh and blood, versus metal and serial codes? It was a scary thought and yet one she had grown quite comfortable with over the years. After all, her decision – whilst criminal and certainly not one to be made by a child – had freed her from an agonising and protracted early death, the remnants of which still clawed at her cells in a futile battle against submission. If the trade-off was having to furtively hide the truth of her recovery then it was well worth it; oddly enough, being out in the public eye granted her a strange layer of protection that stopped people from looking too closely at her reluctance to socialise beyond anything related to her work.

Lavs shuddered at the memory of the disastrous party from a few weeks back. Though she had gained a certain pride at going unnoticed even by the prime minister and Queen she'd also had too close a call as the paramedics insisted on checking her thoroughly for injuries. Thankfully she'd had enough of her wits about her to convince them she'd only suffered scratches at worst and then escaped before anyone could double-check. One of these days her luck would run out and she knew it; getting away with this many internal changes and somehow not suffering any of the frequent side effects involved already seemed too good to be true, and Lavs suspected that life would hit viciously once it finally turned against her.

She sighed as she paced out of the bathroom, stopping to pick up her discarded nightclothes and sorting them away, no longer bothered by the familiar soreness that the technology inside her caused when it initially switched to a higher state of function upon waking up. Lavs swiftly picked out her outfit for the day and dressed, then wrangled her hair into some semblance of presentability, casting thoughts of her crime out of her head. It would do no good to linger on morbid thoughts for too long.

And besides, she had a book signing to attend.


	4. Ego

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while. Here, have a story. Also, welcome to the part where I start having characters who aren't real people.

P-22 remembered his first moment of consciousness quite distinctly, remembered the gentle vibration of a razor as it buzzed across his scalp and sent long clumps of hair tumbling down. Remembered the momentary tickle of that hair against his skin before it was roughly brushed off in an efficient manner. Remembered the low chatter of a conversation he couldn’t have hoped to understand.

A pair of hazel eyes dropped down into his line of sight followed almost immediately by a pinpoint light that began to move across his vision. It vanished as suddenly as it appeared and P-22 was forced to blink rapidly as he adjusted to the abrupt change in brightness. The person who had crouched in front of him smiled before reaching out to pat his newly shaved head in the way one might pet a dog. Not that P-22 could comprehend that; the limited functions of his brain were currently just trying to process what on Earth was happening and failing miserably.

So he just sat there.

 

* * *

 

Dr. Kartoff brought himself out of a crouch and moved to the back of the room where his subordinate handed over the readings the team had collated in the short time this newest subject had been active. “We have a good one,” he stated, making a few notes at the top of the first page as he received a smattering of congratulatory smiles in return. This particular batch of subjects had had a low success rate, a result of a computing error that had been caught too late to fix, so the fact that their time hadn’t been _entirely_ wasted with defectives was something of a relief. Of the seven that had survived, P-22 was the first to not suffer a seizure from the routine nervous system check so Kartoff didn’t hold out much hope for the remaining two they had yet to check, but it didn’t really pose a problem in the long run. If P-22 showed the results required then it would be a simple thing to clear a repeat for this batch. If not, then he would just make enough adjustments to the composition to warrant an entirely new run.

He forgot the name of the scientist he handed the file over to, though it didn’t exactly matter. “You’re in charge of this one. I want to know immediately if something unusual happens.” If he sounded overbearing then the team didn’t mind, all now used to his nature and aware that his occasional abrasiveness was more an intense curiosity than anything else. The scientist nodded and began the process of relocating the subject as instructed, while Kartoff was busying himself with ideas for revising his experiments.

 

* * *

 

“So this is the place you think there might be issues?” Mez asked for clarification as she read over a bullet-point list of information, her free hand keeping a mug of oolong steady on the arm of the couch. “’Anthropology and Genetic Sciences’? Sounds like a mind-numbing school class.”

“AnthroGen. They’re walking a very thin line,” Walama nodded, “so it’s not unreasonable to investigate them.”

“But this is a private research company.” Mez set the list down on the coffee table along with her tea, folding her hands under her chin as she studied her associate. “We’ll need to come up with a proper cover this time. I doubt we can just knock on their door. Maybe they’ll let us in if we say it’s for a school project?”

Walama shook her head at the idea, though she obviously knew it had been sarcastic. “Don’t worry about it too much. They’ve been at this for a long time; the facility isn’t going to disappear overnight. We have time to think of something.”

Mez huffed. “I guess so. But I’d still prefer to sort this one out sooner rather than later.”

 

* * *

 

P-22 had a strange life, though without any comparisons he would never know that. Someone would have had to point it out to him that running on a treadmill festooned in a mask and tubing and wires for hours on end was not an activity anyone of his age should be performing. He was continuously picking up items or pulling something that didn’t want to move, then asked what various images and phrases meant. Anything he didn’t understand (a lot) he didn’t respond to at all, which seemed to be the answer the people in lab coats were looking for. The scientists were constantly flitting between him, the monitors and their notes, scribbling away furiously whenever he completed a task. At first the white overcoats had confused P-22 into thinking there was only one person studying him, but now he could identify at least ten distinct faces switching in and out of monitoring duty. The one with blue eyes and short dark hair was Miller, and he only knew her name because she was always the first person he saw when he woke and the last when he slept.

It had taken him a long time to work out that he was being put to sleep. He would be walked to his unit and sealed in, then the next thing he knew he was being pulled out of it and having a light shone in his eyes. Once he had realised that the cast of faces around him had changed every time that happened, it was inevitable that P-22 reached the conclusion that events were happening while he wasn’t conscious. Inference made, he no longer paid the mystery thought since it had no effect on his life.

“Okay, an extra 100 kilos this time. P-22: pull.”

At the command, he reached up to grip the bar above his head and pulled it downwards, which in turn raised a square platform nearby. P-22 had long since worked out the two were connected somehow, and the amount of items on the platform changed how difficult it was for him to move the bar. He had yet to encounter a mass too difficult for him, though that eventuality was increasingly likely.

“P-22: stop.” He did as he was told, letting go of the bar immediately and thankful that some system had been installed so that the platform lowered slowly by itself, not wanting to experience the shock of it crashing to the ground like it had the first time this experiment had been run. “Another success,” Miller commented, marking something on her clipboard. “Okay, load up 100 again.”

“This is ridiculous,” another scientist muttered in awe as he carted the mass over.

“Quite the success,” Miller replied with a smile in her voice. “Oh, is something wrong?”

“Looks like one of the wires is breaking,” the man said, Miller heading over to see what he meant. Since he hadn’t been told otherwise, P-22 followed her like he’d been taught.

The platform was held up by four twists of cable in each corner that joined up into one thicker rope that vanished into the ceiling; Miller poked at the frayed split that was forming in one of the corners and frowned at it, making an annoyed noise. P-22 didn’t fail to notice these motions but he didn’t react to them either. “It shouldn’t be like that already. We can’t use the equipment in this state.” She sighed. “Guess we’re done for today then. I’ll take the subject back to his unit. Let’s hope we can get this fixed soon.”

P-22 was beyond confused as to why the testing was ending so early but he said nothing, just followed Miller back toward unconsciousness.

 

* * *

 

 

Kartoff stared down at the two girls stood before him, barely older than his nieces if he had to wager a guess. This certainly wasn’t what he’d been preparing for for the last few weeks. “I was expecting one Mr. Bekennen?” he said questioningly, hoping he hadn’t made some terrible mistake along the way.

“We are his representatives,” the taller of the girls said in a formality that didn’t reflect her youth. “Mr. Bekennen regrets that he could not attend the meeting today, but unfortunately some rather urgent business came up at the last moment. He hopes you do not find his absence indicates a lack of interest or courtesy.”

“No, no, of course not,” Kartoff replied, still reeling mentally at the strange tone the girl had. “If I might ask, who are you two?”

“My name is Walama, and this is Mezola.” She indicated to the smaller girl. “We are Mr. Bekennen’s daughters.”

“Adopted,” Mezola chimed in, obviously having seen the question on the scientist’s face regarding the physical differences between the two of them. “As we understand it, you’re supposed to be giving us a tour and explaining what it is you do here?”

Kartoff nodded, his confusion settling down now that he understood the situation. It wouldn’t do to dismiss these children simply because of their age as losing the potential backing of Bekennen would be a huge setback. The doctor had been surprised when the man had first contacted him, expressing an interest in their studies, seeking more information. Initially he had been sceptical of such a supposedly rich man that he’d never heard of wanting to visit the facility, but a thorough background check had corroborated Bekennen’s story, his lack of fame due to extreme reclusiveness. From then on, Kartoff had been apprehensively waiting for this day.

“Is it okay if we record the tour?” Mezola asked, immediately causing the doctor to feel conflicted. “Father would hate it if we forgot any information.”

“Unfortunately we don’t allow the use of imaging equipment in this facility,” he answered routinely, not wanting to break the rules but also not wanting to lose a potentially massive donation.

“Oh. Then… is just a sound recording alright?” He thought about it for a moment before nodding slowly. “Great.” Mex grinned and pulled a small device out of her pocket, clipping it to the collar of her shirt and switching it on. Walama copied her actions and Kartoff realised that they had been prepared for this answer from the get go. “Shall we get started then?”

“Certainly. Follow me.”

 

* * *

 

 

It had been remarkably easy to get into the facility, all things considered. Sure, they’d had OKD fabricate an entire human online so as to safeguard against background checking but the scientists seemed almost _too_ eager to appease them; they really must have been desperate for some reason. Mez waited impatiently (though she kept her expression calm) as Kartoff punched in a keycode by the door before swiping an ID card that identified him as the head of division. Finally, they could move out from the lobby and into a clinical hallway that didn’t go far before branching left and right in a sharp corner that Mez worried that she might actually be able to cut herself on.

Kartoff led them to the left and through another door, though this one only required his card to open. The new room was filled with so much equipment that neither of the Confessions could name all of it or even begin to guess their purposes, though Wala was certain there were at least three centrifuges, all currently in use. “This is our main lab,” Kartoff stated, gesturing to the room and the host of scientists scurrying about it as he not-so-subtly tried keep the girls by the door and out of the way. “This is where each line of inquiry begins and we calculate the changes we need to make to the ordinary human genome so as to achieve our current aims. Sometimes it’s splicing with other DNA, sometimes just rewriting what’s already there. Our main goal is simply to explore the effects of scientific intervention on humans and record that knowledge in the event that it becomes applicable or necessary for future generations.”

“So what kind of aims have you had?” Wala queried.

Sounding very much like he was continuing to read from a pamphlet, Kartoff answered, “Successes include the implementation of natural night vision, extreme sense of smell and rapid regeneration. In fact,” now it sounded more like ordinary speech, “regeneration was one of the first things this programme studied, and we used our findings to accelerate the pace of the rest of our research.”

“Interesting,” Mez said, not yet finding anything overtly suspicious about the research but still looking. “So have you been here since the beginning?”

“Indeed, ever since we were established more than three decades ago. I was just an intern at the time, of course, but now I run the whole thing.” He seemed quite proud of that, showing little sign that there was a dark secret lurking beneath the surface of the facility. Mez was inclined to believe that maybe this place would actually check out, though of course it was too early to say for sure.

“So is it true that AnthroGen is part of DraCom?” she asked bluntly, enjoying the off-kilter expression on Kartoff’s face that quickly turned into a barely hidden grimace. “I’m sure you can understand why father might be concerned.”

“Yes, it’s true that we _were_ once affiliated with the Developmental Research Association,” the scientist replied with an almost too-heavy emphasis on the past tense and a stressfully measured end to his statement. Mez mentally noted that he had used the official name for the disgraced group rather than what the masses called it, something she suspected he did to keep distanced from the idea of it. “Of course, when the DRA was disbanded our research was thoroughly monitored and checked and _fully_ cleared of any charges. We’re one of the only subsidiaries remaining, and as such can benefit from a stockpile of funds left over but that is the extent of our connection now, and we rely more on donations and private funding.”

A glance between Wala and Mez showed that they both knew that this was the first big lie he’d told. AnthroGen wasn’t a particularly well-known group, nor did their study yield any advancements applicable in the current day. The chances that they had enough backing to not dip into the DraCom stockpile were miniscule. Now Kartoff’s desperation for the fake Mr. Bekennen’s support made more sense; even if the DraCom fund had been sizeable once, twenty years of high use for the rate of research here would surely have diminished it. The facility simply wasn’t sustainable.

 

* * *

 

 

P-22 was understandably confused when he was pulled out of his unit and found himself being assisted by someone that wasn’t Miller. She had been there every single time, but now…? Even though he was glancing around for her everywhere she couldn’t be seen, and the handler that was with him currently kept tutting every time P-22 turned his head away from the jet of water that was being used to clean him.

Where was Miller? Was something wrong? Surely it was a special occasion, good or bad, if he were being woken up without her; he only hoped it was the former.

 

* * *

 

 

Kartoff decided to take the Bekennen daughters down the Q series run for the display of their growth facilities. The girls had asked some very searching questions so far and though the taller one was professional about it, like she was repeating someone else’s words, Mezola seemed to take some kind of joy in watching his surprise and discomfort every time. If that really was the case then she was truly a sociopathic little thing, and he ought to keep an eye on her just in case she took it upon herself to wander off.

Even as he thought that she was already meandering to the side of the walkway they were on, white tile continuing as far as the eye could see and lit with a string of incandescent lights. Glass tanks filled with a viscous green liquid were set in the floor on either side of the path and there were lowered walkways that made it possible to observe them from the side as well. Mezola was crouched by the first of the 26 units, peering into it to examine the body inside. As long as she didn’t try to open it, Kartoff couldn’t fault her for her curiosity. “This is one of our current batches,” he started explaining as Walama also began to express an interest in the tanks. “In order to have as many samples as possible, we modify our subjects so that they have an accelerated mitosis and grow faster than an actual human would. When they reach twelve weeks of development we wake them up and begin testing, which then can last for up to a year depending on the sample.”

“Why only a year?” Mezola inquired, pressing one of her palms flat against the glass and staring at the foetal human with more intensity than Kartoff was entirely comfortable with.

“The accelerated mitosis, of course,” he said, before realising that maybe she hadn’t actually understood what they meant. “They age incredibly quickly. After a year they begin to die natural deaths. Well, as natural as it can get in a clinical environment.” He smiled a little at that, a soft joke that every scientist he knew found at least a little amusing. “Anyway, if we need more samples we grow a new batch. If we want to keep a particularly good subject for more extensive testing, we move them to a separate housing area and keep them in complete stasis whenever they’re not needed. It completely stops their growth while they’re under.”

Mezola nodded and stood before hopping over the side of the walkway to the lower level to get a new perspective of the child in the tank, haloed by extremely long blond (he thought it was blond; the liquid made it hard to discern details) hair that would only be first cut when the subject finally emerged from the basic development phase. Mezola tapped on the glass but Kartoff made no move to stop her, knowing she couldn’t disturb the child.

“If I may; what measures do you have in place to prevent ethical breaches?”

The sound of Walama’s voice startled him slightly, the girl having been so quiet he’d quite forgotten she was there. “All subjects – when removed from their units – are provided with ample food and good lodging. We ensure that we do not cause any unnecessary pain to them and if accidents do occur, we terminate subjects humanely to prevent suffering.”

“I’m sure you understand if father requests more detailed information at a later date,” Walama stated in a calm response. Of course, it only made sense that he did. From what he’d learnt, Mr. Bekennen was an incredibly thorough businessman. “And what of your safeguarding for sentience? If you keep the subjects for almost a year then surely it might become difficult to determine whether or not a breach has occurred?”

“Ah, quite shrewd. However, none of our subjects could gain sentience. During development they’re in a stimuli-deprived environment and their brains are forming far too quickly. We also utilise a number of chemicals to prohibit advanced synaptic development, so in total, they don’t have neural power capably of higher thought. Of course, we do have regular checks to ascertain each individual’s comprehension and if we are even the slightest bit unsure we can run an IR, though those have always returned 0 even then.” Kartoff glanced over at Walama to make sure she was following properly and found himself met with an unwavering gaze that he had to quickly look away from again. “Honestly, the subjects don’t even recognise themselves in a mirror. Nor do they even try to interact with one another. As you can see, we are quite safe in our assurance that no sentience will occur.”

Mezola hopped up onto the walkway again and nodded curtly, sharing a glance with her sister. “Sounds reasonable,” she said, actually with a tone of sincerity this time. “Shall we move on?”

 

* * *

 

 

So far, nothing seemed off about the facility or the research and the division head – though slightly unsettled by the two Confessions – was polite enough and bore none of the signs of a liar. Mez was inclined to believe that everything was above-board, though wouldn’t make a firm judgement until the whole tour was over. After all, Dr. Kartoff was now leading them to what he called a ‘live lab’ where one of their extended subjects would be used to demonstrate current achievements, and when would there be a more likely time to find something out of place? The lab itself looked less like a room of science than it did a gym, though admittedly a peculiar one. A variety of weights congregated around workstations and miscellaneous apparatus and the floor had a marginal spring in it, padded to limit any injuries that might occur. An unremarkable scientist greeted them as they entered and was quickly dismissed in favour of jumping right to the subject at hand (Mez giggled at her internal pun for a moment).

“This is P-22,” Kartoff stated, gesturing the boy stood stock still in the middle of the room. Mez immediately moved closer to examine him, even waving a hand in front of his eyes to see if he would respond. The subject’s eyes didn’t flicker from their fixed gaze, as expected. Behind her the doctor was emanating an annoyance restrained only by a forced civility in fear of losing potential funding. He was probably bugged by her blatant doubt whether the subject was a basic as he had claimed earlier. “As I’m _sure_ you comprehend, we’re keeping P-22 in stasis whenever we don’t need him for testing, so as to prolong his lifespan. He’s been active for about three months now and hasn’t changed at all since we first woke him up.”

Wala took this chance to do her own quick once-over of the subject. He didn’t look any older than twelve, in her opinion, dressed in plain beige clothing that looked neither comfortable nor uncomfortable. His hair was shaved short to keep it from getting in the way of experiments but aside from that it didn’t seem like the scientists had made any visible modifications to his body so she couldn’t help but wonder what exactly made him special enough to keep around for extended study. Wala’s brow furrowed as she examined P-22’s face, which struck her with a sense of familiarity that she couldn’t place.

“We use a randomised selection of DNA volunteered by the scientists working on the project to grow our subjects,” Kartoff stated, correctly interpreting the question on her face. “You’ve probably seen his source somewhere during the tour.”

Wala glanced back at P-22, then at the doctor again, before returning her attention to the boy and nodding in satisfaction, her curiosity now fulfilled. Without missing a beat, Mez chimed in with a question of her own.

“So what is he supposed to do?”

“The P series was engineered to produce an altered form of muscle fibre, capable of withstanding at least five times more stress. In layman’s terms, we gave them extraordinary strength.”

Mez’s eyebrows shot up in interest at the superhero-esque premise, now playing with the idea of masked vigilantes scuttering around the scrapers. The absurdity of it made her giggle slightly, something Kartoff didn’t fail to notice.

“Yes, well, anyway, let us move on with the demonstration. Follow me.” He took them over to a bar that was hanging from the ceiling, the subject finally reacting and moving with them. “It has been trained to come to whichever apparatus we are standing by,” Kartoff explained as the boy took up an obviously familiar stance below the bar, “as well as to follow a few select orders. P-22: pull.” As P-22 did as instructed, a platform nearby rose from the ground to about chest-height. Mez made toward it but for the first time – despite all of his obvious desire to keep her in check – Kartoff actually put his hand on her shoulder and gripped tight to stop her from moving. “You don’t want to be near that when it comes down. Health and Safety,” he said simply, shrugging. “P-22: stop. _Now_ you can look.”

With a condescending smile he let go and Mez yanked herself away irritably, though one warning glance from Wala halted her from any rash retaliation to the admittedly minor insult. Now that the platform had finished lowering she was able to take note of just how much weight was on it, eyes bugging as she assessed the four-digit total of mass. How could such a flimsy twelve-year old boy (who was actually about six months old, by her calculation) manage so much more weight than a practised adult? She hated to admit it, but it was a remarkable feat of science.

Before she could say anything of the sort or even inform Wala, yet to move, of how much had just been lifted, the door opened to reveal a scientist awkwardly holding on to the frame as he struggled to decide whether to enter fully or not. “Öffnen would like to talk to you, Dr. Kartoff,” he reported.

“I see,” Kartoff nodded. “If you’ll excuse me; this will only take a minute,” he said to the girls before heading for the door. “Feel free to examine the subject whilst I am gone.”

Mez and Wala stared after him as he left, unsure what to make of the fact that they had just been left alone despite him obviously not wanting them to leave his sight earlier. Whoever had come calling must have been very important.

“Well,” the shorter of the two gave a decisive clap to reset the atmosphere, “we were given permission so let’s see if this ridiculousness is just a fluke or not.” Already she had sighted a pile of weights nearby and she went to grab one, lugging it onto the platform before stepping back. Wala gave the appropriate signal and up it all went.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” Wala warned as Mez tackled an even larger mass when the system had been returned to the start.

“Nonsense,” she huffed, straightening and stretching her back whilst still trying to play herself off as fine. “P-22: pull.” Once more the boy did as he was told, not showing any signs of exertion; Mez didn’t know whether to be impressed or jealous that he was more composed than she was despite the higher difficulty workout, if it could be called that. She had him lower the platform again and then scrambled onto it herself, situating herself as comfortably as possible between two of the larger weights. There was nothing wrong with her taking a break after all.

“Mez, I’m not sure now is the time to mess around.”

“I really don’t think Dr. What-His-Face will be bothered about something he actually said we were allowed to do.”

“His exact word was ‘examine’ and I don’t think this counts.”

Mez rolled her eyes, doubting that Kartoff would return so soon, and what he didn’t know he couldn’t be mad about. “I’m sure that adding one ‘me’ to this won’t be a problem. P-22: pull.” She waited expectantly to be raised up if only for the brief moment to be higher than her companion.

Nothing.

“Huh. Weird. P-22: pull.” The boy’s head turned to face her but he still did nothing. She sent a questing glance at Wala who shrugged.

“Maybe you should get down,” she suggested, moving over to give Mez her assistance. As she went the subject followed, following his training; since neither of them was by the bar anymore, he defaulted to their current location. The Confessions shared an uncertain glance at this but ignored it for the time being, instead focussing their deducting skills on working out why he’d stopped listening to that one particular order.

“Maybe he couldn’t hear me?” Mez posited. “But he did turn to look at me when I told him to pull again…”

“It’s not like he refused because we aren’t the normal people in charge either, since he was complying beforehand.”

“So then what else could it be?”

Wala crossed her arms in thought. “Well… perhaps we should take a look at what changed. It seems to me that the trigger for this behaviour was you being on the weights.”

“What, so are you saying he thought I was too heavy?” Mez said, mock offended. “Maybe no one is allowed to be on it?” At this point Mez caught something in her periphery, a mere flick of eyesight and tiny raising of the hand. Instantly she zoomed to attention to where P-22 had briefly given his interest – one of the cables that held the platform up. She grabbed it, quickly running her hand in both directions along the twist to find a frayed section that had split almost halfway. With fingers still on the damage she raised her head, finding that P-22 was now meeting her eyes.

“Oh,” Wala said simply, catching on to what had happened. “ _Oh_.”

“’Oh’ indeed, my friend. Unless we were uninformed of his super eyesight, the subject already knew that this wire was breaking.” His eyes darted back to the split, then to Mez, then to Wala. It would have been an insignificant action on anyone else, but it only served to reaffirm what the pair now believed.

“He judged the break risk as unimportant for the weights, but too precarious for a human,” Wala concluded aloud, to make certain they were on the same page. “Which means he has reasoning skills. Didn’t Kartoff specifically say they limited brain power?”

“Unless he’s a really fucking good liar, he’s made a mistake somewhere. This means we can get AnthroGen for breaching Sentience Laws.”

The taller Confession frowned. “Only if we can get someone to agree with us verbally. We weren’t allowed video recording, remember?”

Mez groaned in annoyance. As sneak as the Confessions were, they didn’t break the rules themselves. Filming when explicitly told not to would make the evidence illegal and therefore useless in making a case, so they had to settle for audio occasionally. But since she reckoned none of the scientists here had noticed P-22’s mental ability (for lack of thorough looking, most likely) they probably weren’t going to get one of them to be witness to the illegality. She glanced over at the boy in frustration, hesitating when the beginnings of an idea formed in her mind.

Okay, maybe they could still pull this off.

 

* * *

 

He clutched at the bag in his hands without thinking, gripping it so tightly that the sound of tearing fabric startled him into jumping. The social worker managing him looked down for a second but upon seeing no actual damage done just shrugged and rang the doorbell on a slightly intimidating pair of doors. P-22 still hadn’t learnt their name, barely their face, and was truthfully still confused by the whirlwind of events he’d been caught in. Even the bag he held was full of stuff that he was told was his – it had taken a while for him to understand what that meant – yet had no attachment to or really any desire to keep.

On day he had been living the life he’d always known, the next he was being pulled out, left alone then dragged in front of a several people who mumbled indistinguishably around him, left alone again, then taken by the one recurring face to an entirely different setting. There was no routine, nothing that kept stable and no one said anything he could make sense of. The only thing he consistently picked up on was his own name, said with the same detachment he was used to.

“Cheer up,” the social worker said. They frowned lightly when he just stared at them blankly. “Say something,” they then sighed, reminding P-22 that he was actually supposed to be making noises now. It was still so weird – none of the scientists had ever seemed to want him to verbally reply before, but now people were constantly asking him to make the words himself.

“Yes,” he said simply, still tripping over the monosyllable. The worker sighed again, deeper.

“That wasn’t a question.” They were resigned but didn’t press the matter further as the door opened at that moment, revealing a short girl whose face immediately widened into a grin.

“Hey!” she greeted, and though separately he wouldn’t have recognised her voice or face, together he remember who she as. This was the person who had caused the change. He hadn’t wanted to lift her and then she kept repeating the same words over and over and over and over and over and over until he finally realised she wanted him to copy; he had complied and she had left, and when he next woke up everything was different.

At some point she had led them inside and they were in another room that seemed strange to P-22, sitting on a comfortable set of sofas around a coffee table. He held his bag on his lap as loosely as possible so as to not break it. In fact, maybe he wouldn’t move for now, in case he broke anything else. It was not an uncommon occurrence, as it turned out.

“So Riley, how’s he been?” the girl asked his companion, who glanced over but said nothing directly to him.

“Difficult, though also not. He still doesn’t seem to understand everything that’s happening but he’s not been violent. Intentionally, anyway.”

“It’s weird seeing him look older.” P-22 felt her eyes give him a once over but didn’t complain, already very used to it.

“It’s only to be expected. We haven’t been putting him in stasis like AnthroGen used to so his growth is more noticeable now. On the upside, the doctors say that might be helpful to integrate him properly since his brain is adapting faster than normal; he’s already picking up speech much better, though he still forgets to use it most of the time.”

“Cool, so if we just keep talking at him he’ll learn how to speak?”

“Yes, though don’t forget to make him reply as much as possible. This is a critical stage for him to learn how to function in society so make sure he doesn’t develop any bad habits.”

“You know I can’t promise he won’t get addicted to the TV.”

“And you know that’s not what I meant.”

“True.”

“Listen, Mez, you need to be careful, okay? You’re the only orphanage suited to such an… unusual case as this.”

“I know. A fast-growing, fourteen-year-old-looking, super strong human with a conscious age of four months; where else could you possible send him? You should be very glad we agreed to take the kid.”

“Well it’s not like you were going to refuse now, is it?”

“Also true.”

“This is a delicate situation. He still can’t control his strength very well and we don’t know how much strong he’ll get as he gets older. Speaking of which, we’ve outsourced a team to create some sort of drug to slow his aging but we’ve not had much luck so far. Once the research from AnthroGen is released to them they might get somewhere but for now you’re going to have to deal with his rapid aging.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Do you know what else is fun? All this paperwork I need you to fill out.”

“Fuck.”

“It’s got to be done.”

“I know that.” The girl – Mez? – rolled her eyes as the social worker – Riley? – began rooting through their folder for the correct sheaves of paper to lay out on the table. Then she lifted her head and shouted so loudly that it made the boy jump again. “Hey! Wala! Can you take P-22 for a minute while I handle all the boring shit?” Then, quieter, “We have really got to start calling him something else.”

“You can figure that out when I’m gone,” Riley said, plucking the red pen Mez had procured out of her hand and replacing it with a black one. “Hello, Walama.”

P-22 registered the touch of someone’s hand on his shoulder and turned to see who it was, standing when the new face indicated for him to do so. No, wait, this face wasn’t a new one either. Okay. He tried to commit her facial structure to memory and tagged it with ‘Wala’ since that was the sound he had heard most in conjunction with it. “Come and find us when you’re done,” she said to both other occupants in the room, who nodded simultaneously. Her hand moved to his pack to gently propel him out of the room and back into the hallway, which he now paid more attention to. It was wide, providing plenty of pace for the set of stairs that started midway, a neat row of shoes near the front door just aside enough that no one would trip over them. The walls were papered in a comforting peach and abundant with photos of smiling people he didn’t recognise with the exception of Wala and Mez, and the floor was a strange lined but grainy texture that somehow still felt as smooth as the floors he used to walk on. It made a tapping noise as he walked.

“This way,” Wala instructed, leading him up the stairs and along another corridor; simple doors lined this path, each labelled on the front with a printed name (he guessed) under which hung more decorative versions of the names in bright blues and reds and greens, each one unique in design and lack of professionalism. Wala pushed open a blank door and gestured for him to enter first, P-22 stepping cautiously into the space. The colour scheme in here was green, something he didn’t really carry opinions on but noted anyway. A desk stood to the side of the door, a closet next to it, and at the far side was a single bed sporting sheets of an even darker green. Ah. It was a bedroom then.

P-22 didn’t like bedrooms. He was left alone in them, abandoned to his own devices. He was supposed to ‘sleep’, he knew that, had worked that one out quickly, but no one seemed to understand that that particular activity was immensely difficult for him. Before, he had been put under artificially, and lying on a mattress felt wrong since he was used to floating in a viscous fluid. He was too aware of the material, everywhere it bunched, what his own body was doing. It kept his mind active and so sleep eluded him for days at a time, at which point he only could rest by passing out. He didn’t like bedrooms.

“It’s a bit bare at the moment, but we’ll find you some stuff you’ll like,” Wala commented, clearly having seen some semblance of his distaste. “For now, just leave your bag here. Okay?”

“…yes,” he replied hesitantly, carefully letting go of his bag so that it rested lightly on the bed. Hopefully someone would tell him what to do with its contents later.

“Now I know we’ve just gotten here, but would you like to see the kitchen downstairs? Someone should be making dinner by now and I want to make certain it’s been started.”

“Yes.”

Wala nodded, seemingly unperturbed by his flat answering. That was odd, since most people seemed to get antsy when he kept saying the same thing every time. She led him back down the stairs, giving him the time to take more notes on the layout and where everything was situated. He’d heard Riley talking about him living somewhere more than once and he assumed that this was the place he would be spending the foreseeable future in, so he might as well try to figure out how it worked now so he could be prepared for anything that might happen there. Life outside the lab was chaos, after all.

Dinner was in fact being made in the kitchen, as it turned out, though the task had only just been started. A gaggle of children ranging in heights were positioned by the counters, handing each other utensils and getting in one another’s way. In the other side of the room was a large table where several more people were sitting, chatting or reading. In turn each person would glance up at him but none said anything before returning their attention to what they were already doing.

“This is where we make food and eat,” Wala explained, gesturing to the room. “Let me introduce you to OKD.” She moved over to a boy who was chopping something up, tapping him on the shoulder to make herself know and briefly conversing with him too quietly for P-22 to hear. He padded over after her, whereupon he got distracted by a strange surface littered with untidy black icons. Some of them where lined up in obviously a meaningful order whilst others seemed to have been dragged down the surface indiscriminately. He poked one around, fascinated to see it move but not fall off. Wala picked up on his distraction. “They’re magnets. The little kids love them.” Her head tilted left as she considered them. “Do you know how to read?”

“Ye… N…” He didn’t actually know the answer to that one.

“The word you’re looking for is ‘maybe’.”

“Maybe.” Again, his mouth struggled with the phonetics but Wala seemed entirely unfazed, instead frowning at something and shuffling some of the organised letters away from each other, then clearing out a distinguishable space. She pushed one icon into the emptiness. “Do you know this one?”

“It’s ‘P’,” he replied, the first sentence that wasn’t a singular word. Wala smiled.

“And this?” She moved another one up to sit next to it.

“No.”

“It’s the number ‘two’,” she explained. He made sure to remember what that number looked like, this being the first time he had seen the squiggle called that. She moved another one up and then lowered her hand, having completed the sequence. “So this reads?”

“P-two-two,” he replied, fully tripping over the pronunciation this time. Beside them someone began to chortle, startling P-22.

“Sorry, sorry,” the boy apologised. “I’m OKD,” he elaborated before turning to Wala. “You said he hasn’t got a proper name, right? I’m gonna call him Potato.”

Wala frowned. “You can’t call him that just because he mispronounced his name _once_. We need to give him a few weeks to decide himself, and I doubt he’ll be happy with that.”

“You’re no fun.”

But OKD was still smiling at him and now Wala’s face was brightening too; they began to laugh which set off all of the youngest children in the room so pretty soon there was a confused mess of people giggling for no reason, the sound of it overwhelming to P-22 who had never heard such a noise before. Without really understanding his throat copied the sound and joined in.

 

* * *

 

“Seriously? _That’s_ how you got your name?”

Potato laughed at the incredulity in her voice; in retrospect it was pretty silly, but he’d grown used to being referred to as a tuber so by the time Mez had asked him what he wanted to actually be called he didn’t really see any point in changing it. After all, it made the young kids happy. “Yep. Most people here take new names so it isn’t that strange.”

“…it’s still pretty strange to be called ‘Potato’.” She shook her head. “What the- just how much of it got into your hand!?”

“Not my fault.”

“It kind of was.”

Potato smirked, then winced as she pulled out another piece of ceramic from his palm, placing it with a _clink_ on a small pile of similar pieces on the counter. He’d been distracted for one second hand accidentally crushed a mug – it wasn’t odd for him to misjudge his own strength, though it was less frequent than when he first arrived on the Confession’s doorstep. That didn’t stop it from hurting though. “I stand by what I said. Ah, the first aid kit is in the top cupboard.”

She scowled and shoved his hand under the tap and turned it on, then focussed her attention on retrieving the elusive kit. He watched as she dragged a chair across the floor so she could stand on it, stretching up to the top shelf, muttering to herself irritably all the way. When she’d returned her feet to the floor he switched the water off and patted his hand down with a tea towel, glad to see that the damage wasn’t as bad as he thought. If he skipped his pills for one night then it’d be fine by the morning. Still, he allowed himself to be subjected to a careful binding of bandages just to be safe. Heck, he could probably use this as an excuse to dodge dinner duty later.

“I am not a nurse, so don’t expect this to last,” she grumbled.

“That’s fine,” he shrugged.

She grumbled some more as she returned the kit back to its home, followed by the chair, then came back to finish off all of the tea. Potato leant against the counter, studying the girl. She had come to them upset, at odds with her companion, but for some reason her incessant complaining actually made her seem happier than before. Potato didn’t claim to be a master of judging people, what with his lack of experience in life in comparison to his physical age, but she appeared to fit in quite well with the environment despite having only just got there. She’d happily taken out whichever mugs she wanted from the cupboards when asked, clearly with some kind of criteria since she’d rooted around for a little bit before pulling out a matching pair with decals of flowers, one with red petals and the other lilac. Was there some method to her decision? There was certainly nothing wrong with all the mugs she’d rejected. Hmm.

“You should make up with her,” he said, breaking the comfortable silence that had fallen between them.

The girl froze, midway through stirring milk into the tea. “I…”

“Listen, I get that it’s hard. And maybe I shouldn’t be rooting for her since, y’know, Mez clearly wants you to leave her and join us, but she seemed pretty worried about you.”

The girl set the spoon down carefully, not letting it make any noise. “I’m scared.” She didn’t elaborate.

“That’s dumb.”

She met his eyes, noticing the lack of insult despite the words used to convey the message. She probably already knew what she wanted, but if he had to stare at her for a meaningfully long period of time to make her admit it to herself then he would.

She sighed. “Can you carry any mugs with your hand like that?” she queried, changing the subject.

“Yeah, I’ll take ours.” Before she could protest he snatched up the drinks destined for himself, Wala and Mez, leaving the girl scowling as she grabbed the remaining two teas. “Ah, Kia, can you get the door?”

“Sure.”


	5. Party Hard

Wearing bright red would immediately get you noticed in London, but in this particular dance hall the colour acted as the best camouflage. The air was permeated with the scent of champagne that made Rvlakia feel a little ill as she moved about unnoticed through the crowd, lack of height adding to her ability to blend in, which in turn enabled her to complete her task. Very few people would leave the event alive.

A smile broke onto her face as she calmly approached a group of three women, striking with such swift precision that none of them would realise their dresses had been stained cinnabar until it was far, far too late. This was so much fun. Rvlakia couldn't help but wonder why she hadn't started doing this sort of mission earlier in her life – it would have helped alleviate the endless monotony of it, that was for certain. She palmed her weapon so that it sat flush on her inner wrist and out of sight despite not having long sleeves, wary of accidentally using it upon herself. Slipping past dignitaries and bureaucrats the girl picked her way carefully to a section of the room she had yet to hit, still avoiding the main table for fear of being caught by the one women she knew could spot her immediately. The consequences of being caught by her were… dire.

As it stood, the general alarm had yet to be raised which was a good sign that no one had noticed the murders yet. Rvlakia had to stifle an inaudible giggle, but the momentary distraction meant she didn't move out of the way of a man stepping backwards at just the wrong moment, his heavy foot landing on hers and causing the girl to hiss in pain. He jumped surprisingly far off of the ground, startled by the unexpected sound and clasping a hand to his heart to calm himself when he finally perceived Rvlakia. The rest of his group watched on with curiosity. Dammit. She'd been caught.

Rvlakia bristled as he bent down to match her eye line, the man's face plastered with a condescending smile that would have worked for anyone else her age – he just had the unfortunate luck of meeting the one girl for whom it wouldn't suffice.

"I'm sorry, are you alright?" he asked in accented English, her facial structure exposing her as non-native. Rvlakia was mildly relieved she could understand what was being said, but the majority of her was just angry at being treated like a child, despite literally being one.

"Fine," was her curt reply.

"Good." The man glanced around. "Are your parents somewhere nearby?"

Rvlakia fought the urge to roll her eyes. As much as she hated it, manners had to be maintained if someone managed to catch her. "The other side of the world, actually."

He frowned. "You are here unattended?"

"No." She turned her head and gave a pointed look toward several of the black suits that lined the perimeter. The man's gaze followed hers and a small frown of confusion decorated his features; his attention returned to her and his mouth opened as if to speak but said nothing as he finally gave her a proper once over. His face stiffened and his lips pulled into a thin line as his brain absorbed the rich crimson dress Rvlakia was wearing, stitched in a myriad of golds and pinks, processing the design – more importantly, processing the coded message hidden amongst the embroidery. She felt a smug satisfaction as he finally stood up straight and addressed her properly, him looking ridiculously far down at her more respectful than the previous crouching.

"My apologies for any impoliteness I have shown you," he spurted hurriedly, quick to fix his mistakes.

"It's really not a problem," she placated, giving a minute bow of her head before scampering away in lieu of continuing conversation. Hopefully the security she had pointed out hadn't noticed the minor commotion. It was easier to dodge them than the woman hosting the party but she still didn't want to risk it. Her eyesight may have been dulled by the years but her intuition was as sharp as ever.

Rvlakia pushed herself through to the opposite side of the room and took a seat on a bench festooned in silks that matched her own outfit, the décor once again helping her to fade into the background. She relaxed the tight grip she had on tonight's weapon of choice, studying the cheap plastic as an exercise to calm her heartbeat. She removed the cap from her tiny pocket and delicately placed it on the end of the cuboid, the action accompanied by a small  _click_. Then she pulled it off. Put it back on. Off again. On. Off.  _Click. Click. Click._

The báiwén seal could easily be mistaken for lipstick if found in a handbag, but it would take an idiot to actually use it on one's mouth. The black plastic cap revealed a felted square when removed, carved carefully so that it would print a crisp rendition of her name when applied to paper. It was useful as a portable seal due to the internal ink reservoir, and easily replaceable, but Rvlakia couldn't wait until she was old enough to receive something more substantial. Mother's was pyrophyllite, brother's a shòushān she had yet to identify fully, but she couldn't help but hope for her own to be nephrite despite knowing it was absurd for a someone so young to receive one. Few things embodied beauty and art like grandmother's jade seal, however.

Sufficiently calmed by daydreaming Rvlakia finally directed her attention outward again, scanning the room to plot her next route through. She wanted to tag as many people as she could before the night was over, counting the successes as 'dead' under a mental tally. It only counted as a kill if she managed to get a clear print from her seal onto a location that would be fatal if she had a knife, and only if she could escape unnoticed as well – it was a silly little game she was playing, but it helped to whittle away the hours of excruciating socialising she didn't want any part of. The government may as well just hang up their hats already and let the triads take over but  _no_ ,  _relations must be maintained for stability and order and to avoid an undue concern from the populace_. It seemed inefficient to her, but what would a child know about politics?

Rvlakia stood, tucking the seal cap away and approaching the closest vulnerable group to stamp them, accomplishing her self-appointed task with ease and adding another 6 to the count. Another 3. Another 7. All the while she kept an eye on the security and the VIP area, creeping away cautiously every time she drifted too close to either one. Another 9. This was easy.

The girl was about to mark the decorative belt of some young woman when red ink alerted her to the fact that she'd already done this person. She shrugged internally and made to move on, not finding it odd that she would forget the face of one of her victims, but a niggling part of Rvlakia's mind had her returning just a moment later. From a distance that wasn't encroaching on personal space the girl eyeballed the pattern, freezing as she recognised the ridiculous 19-stroke character that belonged nowhere near this event. The written word was by no means her strong suit but she had learnt some very particular hànzì to facilitate visits to their grandmother. That was not her seal. Which meant some else was marking people.

Rvlakia considered alerting security. That would end the tedium of the evening and she would promptly be whisked away to safety – no, scratch that plan. Cutting a party short a few hours early wasn't worth the resultant day of captivity under the eagle vision of a 438, and if she were  _extra_  unlucky it would be the one with the exceptionally creaky bones. It didn't seem like this interloper intended to do any harm if they were just marking guests with a seal in the same manner as herself, so perhaps it would be wise to discover who was responsible first? This could be a subtle invitation for communication, for all she knew.

Mind made up, Rvlakia capped her seal and stowed it, untangling the loose knot of the inked belt with a deftness only a child's fingers could possess, yanking it off and vanishing into the crowd before she could be pinned down as the culprit; she couldn't bring any shame to the family if she wasn't caught, after all. The next step was to find somewhere she would be noticeable, but not unless someone was specifically seeking her out. Where could a tiny girl only seven years old stand to not get swamped by adults…

More fluid manoeuvring and several quick bounds brought Rvlakia up to the mezzanine that circled the ballroom, up above the chattering pleasantries and the tinkling of glasses. There were still people up there but not nearly as many, and by positioning herself right beside balustrade Rvlakia could just about see the ground floor: her head barely cleared it though, so she draped the rayon belt over the side with the stamp (it had smudged slightly in transit) facing outward to signal her location, tying it off so she wouldn't develop a cramp in her arm holding it the whole time.

Then, she waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And maybe fell asleep.

She wasn't sure if she did. Time was difficult to track.

Waiting was boring.

Extremely so.

Tedious.

"Are you waiting for me?"

Rvlakia leapt out of her skin at the voice that sounded right by her ear, whirling around to find herself only centimetres away from another young girl who was watching her with great curiosity. "That depends," she replied vaguely, pulling the belt back to their side as replacement for a verbal question. The other girl – the shorter of the two by a small margin – held up a seal similar the one Rvlakia had been using. So, this was indeed the other 'murderer'. Certainly not what one might have expected. "You were sent by the Ng Lai Kwok. For what reason?" She kept her voice level to not betray any semblance of being intimidated, despite the earlier surprise. If this girl was on a mission from their greatest rival group then it could potentially spell great peril.

"I'm sorry." The apology was seemingly heartfelt, if a little confused in tone. "I was just having some fun – I didn't realise I shouldn't have used this particular one." The girl then bent down and placed the seal on the floor like it was nothing, like there was no danger, like she had honestly made a mistake.

Rvlakia didn't allow herself to relax just yet, determined to make sense of what was happening before she made a decision about letting her go or not. "Are you saying you're  _not_ from Ng Lai Kwok?"

A nod. "I was just playing a stealth game, you know? To pass the time. Actually, this is the first I've ever been called out on it."

"So whose group do you belong to then?" Rvlakia's eyes narrowed suspiciously, but if this girl was actually related to an invited guest it wouldn't do to offend her, lest some association be broken in response. Somehow she doubted that though – the girl's clothes were rags when compared to the surrounding finery and Rvlakia hadn't the faintest how she'd managed to avoid the detection of security. Her stealth game was extremely stealthy, for lack of a better word.

"None. I'm not affiliated with any triad. I promise. I just pick up discarded seals sometimes"

Despite all common sense, Rvlakia actually believed her. "Okay. Well. Uhm." Now she had to make conversation. Great. "So… to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking to?"

The other girl giggled at the formality, the sound like one of the smallest hanging chimes at home. "Call me Ging."

Rvlakia raised an eyebrow. "Like 'respect'? Or are you warning me that you're secretly police, because that doesn't seem like your real name."

Another laugh. "No, it's just a little name. I suspect you use one when you're over here too."

"Well you're not wrong." She would have queried the use of 'too' had she not taken a moment to study Ging face again, the structure of it revealing a hint of the West in her blood, though not quite as obviously foreign as Rvlakia herself. "So," she leant against the balustrade, not concerned about falling over the edge, "are you here with your parents?"

"No."

"Me neither."

"How old are you?"

"Seven. You?"

"Eight."

"Really?" The incredulity was heavy in her voice. Rvlakia had yet to meet someone older than her who was also shorter. It was an odd feeling.

"Yeah. Are you often left alone at events like this?"

"All the time. Sort of."

It was fun trading questions with Ging, who seemed to be on the same wavelength as her, skipping the usual preamble of the conversation that had always felt so pointless. The fact that Rvlakia was so easily passing time with – making friends with, even – a complete stranger who had snuck into the party uninvited and was of unknown origin was beyond a stupid idea, and yet somehow that was what was happening. Her bodyguards would have a fit if they ever found out.

"I like your dress," Ging commented, admiring the embroidery. "Camellias are a good flower."

"Thanks. I like your necklace." Rvlakia wasn't just being polite when she returned the compliment; the jewellery had caught her eye quickly, a simple oval with a relief of a rat carved into the jade. It must have been quite expensive. That was, if it wasn't stolen. She opened her mouth to ask about it but was interrupted by a familiar baritone that had her freezing for few seconds before slowing turning to face a young man in a grey suit, chagrined. His jaw quirked sideways in question as he folded his arms expectantly.

"I see you have wandered away from where you are supposed to be. Again." His voice was distempered but resigned, like he had fully expected to find her in such a place even though he hadn't been actively looking.

"I was bored?"

He sighed. "And forgetful. What if something happened to you, R? Just because you can evade your protection doesn't mean you should do it. You might not be as lucky as you were last time."

Rvlakia shrugged. "I'm small; I can hide easily. Brian, you overreact."

"Maybe, but I do not want to be the one in trouble when certain people," the emphasis Brian put on those two words alerted her to whom he was really referring, "find out what mischief you have been up to tonight."

"Can I at least say goodbye to my friend?" He gave Ging a once over before nodding, judging her by her proximity to Rvlakia rather than her clothing as one normally might. "Thank you." Rvlakia turned her back on him warily to smile at the other girl. "Sorry about this, but I've got to go. Wait – are you alright?"

Ging was staring at Brian. "That's Chan Chun Yu. How are  _you_  alright with talking to him so normally?"

"What, Brian?" Rvlakia was bemused by her friend's response. "He's my cousin. Well, first cousin once removed. I think. Is that the right one?" Before she could lose herself in pondering the specific descriptor of their relationship, Ging held up a hand to stop her.

"Wait, you're part of the Kwok Shui Zou? You never said!"

"I thought you knew that?"

"You don't exactly look the part."

"But I'm…" Rvlakia trailed off, looking down at her dress. Ah. Now that she thought about it, Ging had said she wasn't part of any triad, in which case she hadn't been taught the skill of reading Sin Syu, an illicit language encoded in thread. Rvlakia herself wasn't proficient in it but trusted the family tailor's had her wearing the appropriate warnings to ensure nobody stepped on the wrong toes. "Well this is awkward. Maybe it's also a bad time to point out who I'm actually here with…"

Ging's curiosity was evident by this point so they Rvlakia pointed over the balustrade in the direction of the central seating area, at an elderly woman in the midst of a sea of deferential politicians and criminal leaders. The shorter girl's eyes widened in a mix of amazement and fear, eyes darting back and forth between her companion and the woman who was running the current event. "You're the  _heir_  of the Kwok Shui Zou? And you  _never said anything_?"

"Well technically I'm not the 'heir', since I'm not initiated yet and great uncle Kam Ming would take over if grandmother retired – though that's assuming great aunt Kwai Chun doesn't want to take over. Though, again, that's assuming I'm not old enough to lead by the time grandmother steps down or dies, which is a real, if sad, possibility, so–"

She shut up at the look on Ging's face. "The point is that you are directly related to the current leader of the largest criminal organisation in China and you didn't tell me!"

"Oops?"

The girl put her face in her hands, silent for a while. Then, she began to laugh quietly, as if to not attract attention. "Okay, I really do like you. It's a shame we have to part so soon, but I think your cousin is getting impatient." She gestured to Brian who was indeed shifting his weight nervously back and forth, clearly concerned about what would happen when Rvlakia's grandmother finally noticed she was missing. "I'll see you around, I guess?"

"Maybe. I don't spend most of my time in Hong Kong though," Rvlakia admitted forlornly.

"I'm pretty split between Shanghai and London too."

"London? Then we might meet again after all." She grinned. "Maybe I'll call you into the group when we're older. Though I'll look crazy searching for a 'Ging' in England."

"You really will," the other girl chuckled back. "So maybe ask for a 'Celaine' instead."

"Will do."

"Counting on it." With a little wave Ging made her way back into the crowd below, vanishing the second Rvlakia took her eyes off of her. She turned to Brian, who had been pointedly ignoring their conversation as a result of his polite upbringing.

"Are you ready to go down, R?" he asked.

"Certainly."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hah bet you weren't expecting fun times in the past :3  
> Also, none of my family's names are spelt like standard jyutping so that's real confusing


End file.
